


The Violin at Three in the Morning

by foxybadger42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:31:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxybadger42/pseuds/foxybadger42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Sherlock plays the violin, John is dozing off. He dreams of Sarah, but Sherlock dreams of John...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Violin at Three in the Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Story is mine. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Sherlock belongs to BBC.

Sherlock Holmes was thinking in our sitting room at 221B Baker Street. The room was filled with the soft wailing of his violin. It was well past midnight, and I was slumped down into the armchair next to the fireplace, my eyes heavy with fatigue.

The day had been long. I had worked nine to five at the practice before returning home to find Sherlock bumping into me on his way out to Canary Warf. Excited as I was, I had thrown my bag against the foot of the stairs and had run out after Sherlock, just in time to jump into the taxi my friend had hailed only two seconds earlier.

We had returned hours later, both exhausted, and after Mrs. Hudson had shouted at me for leaving my bag on the stairs, (apparently, she had barely avoided trotting on it), we had gone upstairs. But Sherlock's enthusiasm for the case didn't allow him to go to bed. He had muttered something among the lines of: 'Need to think,' when we had entered the sitting room and after dragging myself in, I had dropped down into the armchair and felt unable to move again.

He had picked up a box from the coffee table and I knew his nicotine patches were in it. He had taken out two and patched them onto his lower arm before rolling his sleeve down again and picking up his violin.

I had asked him if he wanted tea or coffee while he tuned his instrument, but he hadn't answered. I was glad he didn't want any because my legs felt too heavy to ever move again. And so did my eyelids.

And he started to play. He wasn't the best musician, but his violin skills were well enough for a commoner. And I knew my friend already well enough to be able to guess his mood by what he was playing. When it was loud and quick, he was frustrated or morose. But tonight he was contemplating and drowning in his own thoughts and doubts because his music was slow and melancholy.

I hated it when he played the violin. Since his nightly schedule was so erratic, he often decided to play at impossible times, rousing me from my sleep. Mrs. Hudson had given me a pair of earplugs weeks ago, but after two nights, I had already lost one. So I often resorted to sleeping with headphones on while listening to some _proper_ classical music.

I was in a weary state of trance, close to falling asleep when I noticed Sherlock ending his melodramatic tune. But I didn't open my eyes. I was close to sleep and even therefore barely registered what was going on in the room. I heard him move, but not in which direction. I was too far away to care to look up at him.

It was then that I felt a pair of hands sliding down my shoulders. I smiled, thinking of Sarah. She was in my mind and I occasionally dreamt of her. I wished she would touch me like that. She did in my dreams, but unfortunately not in real life – yet.

Her hands slide down lower, down my chest and to my waist. I felt her upper body leaning on my shoulder and felt her face close to mine. She sighed as if she was weary too. I smiled contently in my sleep and placed my hand over hers, which had come to rest around my midriff, and I let my head rest against hers - against her square jaw, high cheekbones and short curly hair...

It was then I realised I wasn't dreaming about Sarah, and I felt lips against my cheekbone. But when I had woken up enough to be able to sit up and look around, I saw Sherlock on the landing, disappearing up the stairs.


End file.
